


Transaction

by NightHunterDeath



Category: True Blood (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deals with Depression in a Realistic Manner, Depression, Godric (True Blood) Lives, Godric uses Erik for Eric, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love isn't a Cure, M/M, Mental Illness, Recovery of Depression, Recovery of Suicide, Recovery of Suicide Attempt, Suicide Attempt, Thoughts of Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHunterDeath/pseuds/NightHunterDeath
Summary: Godric hasn’t lived in a long time, and gives one last attempt to see if his child can bring back what he lost so long ago. He leaves Dallas, Texas, and Eric begins to wonder if something isn’t terribly wrong.
Relationships: Eric Northman & Pam Swynford De Beaufort, Godric & Eric Northman, Godric & Pam Swynford De Beaufort, Godric/Eric Northman
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	1. Last Attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cover. I got sidetracked writing this and inspiration struck. Thought I would post it here after my friend like it.
> 
> Enjoy the read!

When he arrives it is already in the dead of night. There’s music blasting through his bones and desire hanging in the air. It’s suffocating in a way that he is sure he had left behind in his human years. He should feel a desire to join, to wreak havoc as he has in the past. That flickering temptation seems to have died out many years ago, however, and he has no idea how to flame the dying embers. He no longer wishes to join in such activities, the very idea sinking like a stone in his stomach.

It may be cowardly but he cannot help that the first place he turns to is his childe’s office, walls so thick that the wavelengths and smells of others can barely seep through the concrete.

For the most part this piece of his childe’s life is barren, filled with very little to no sentimental objects. Much like the rest of the club, it is not designed for Erik and his likes, though he has no doubt on some level he does find the decor appealing. It is a façade for the humans, how they perceive their kind but not what they _are_.

Pamela’s influence drips from every piece, from the furniture to the color scheme and the risqué objects that line the shelves. Part of him, the part that is drowning in ennui and cracking at the edges of sanity, _wants_ to feel amused at how far Erik has given Pamela range of his new business. The majority wonders if she didn’t have a little too much fun with her job.

The ancient vampire takes the seat behind the desk, unwilling to have his back to the only entrance even if it is his childe coming through. His eyes stray from the exit no matter how much he tries to focus and he gives up even before his eyes settle into gazing at nothing.

His Childe nor his GrandChilde know about his presence on the premises. They believe he’s still in Dallas, blocked off from his side of the bond as they are. Through the haze he can feel their underlining worry, he’s been sent curiosity and comfort since he cut himself off from them. As time flew past the three of them their worry lessened without any word from their Sire, believing that the next time they see him they will be able to ask and determine his reasoning for cutting off the emotional connection that binds them to him.

Godric wants to return the sentiment, tell them that nothing is wrong and send reassurance along their bond. Every time he’s gone to do so the bitter taste of black berries fill his mouth, almost succeeding in making him vomit what blood he’s managed to consume. He would be telling a lie and for all his sins, lying to his childe has never been one of them.

Whether it’s a fog of apathy or an ocean of distress, both have crept on his shore for more than a hundred years. The tides might have pushed and pulled but never fully receded enough to allow him to find a way to bridge the widening gap. And after so many years the very thought of treading the unknown currents make him freeze, unable to even find the strength to try to make his way back.

He had been convinced, had denied, what was happening to him. He focused on his childe, allowed himself to be dragged wherever Erik wanted to go. Godric thought if he just kept in the moment, if he continued think of what was for Erik’s best interest he would be able to carve his way through the storm that clouded his mind.

Pamela came into the picture not long after and as Godric watched the interactions between new Maker and Childe, he could no longer live in an illusion. Erik was about to start a new chapter in his life and this one did not include him. Godric left for the New World, hoping in the absent of his childe, the thriving of a new way of life that was on the horizon would be enough to get the ice in his veins moving and allow something new to occupy his attention.

Not long after he found coming to this new land was a mistake he couldn’t have afforded to make.

The vampires here were young, younger than he had interacted with in a long time outside of his bloodline. Most of them were just coming to grasp with the concept of eternity stretching out before them, consumed with the lust for flesh and blood. They thought of the immediate pleasure as many did in their first hundreds of years in this new life of theirs.

It left little time for actual connections, for debates of ages long since gone and they knew nothing but the civilization that hadn’t yet fallen. It did not help while he looked younger than all of them, they could sense his age and power. It set him apart, to be awed and fears upon a pedestal that Godric didn’t want.

Coming to the New World was a mistake, and with the position of authority thrust onto him, one he could not escape from.

It let him stew on the heaviness of his limbs and the weight on his chest.

Isabel, a vampire entering her fifth-hundredth year, had been a welcomed companion. She was old enough to no longer be consumed by her desires if she so chose but young enough to give him a new perspective and a willingness to try new things. She was loyal, on par with his childe in her devotion, and if something did happen to him she would be able to control the young of their nestmates.

She is a good friend and worried over his wellbeing, even as he reassures her he is fine.

In this stagnant area with so much open land even at night the heat of the sun radiates from the ground, it made it all the much harder to resist the urge to step outside and simply disappear.

For all it might not seem like it now, Godric has kept an eye on his wandering thoughts. He monitors them and sometimes pokes at them, watching them fester when he knows he should find a way to let them bleed dry. He let the little irritants of life rub his skin raw and the pleasures build until even their touch burns him like silver.

Godric doesn’t know if the apathy that has slithered its way into his veins is to blame for his lack of action or the desire to repent is what has stayed his hand. He might never know.

The Ancient has a decision to make, sitting in his Childe’s office as he is. Godric can leave as if he’s never been here, allow this wound to infect his life and everything he touches. For however many enemies he might have accumulated there are triple the amount that would never dare raise a hand to him. As old as he is younger vampires would not dare to take a stand against him even if he handed them a stake and bared his chest, believing it to be a trap. Hate-filled humans could be a possibility, but they are frightened by young vampires and while this young form has disadvantages, most will not dare harm a young man not even in adulthood.

Seeing the sun would have been a nice way to go, but for all that he no longer thinks like a vampire, Erik still knows him. He would not believe he fell asleep outside on accident, and it would hurt Erik all the more to learn of his Maker’s fate without prior warning. He would not understand giving up without a fight, and his world would crash down around him without a safe harbor in sight.

No, if Godric leaves his childe will never know the torment his Maker went through, never know the agony that led Godric to this path and allowed his steps to falter. Erik is strong and just as he had lived on after his human family’s death, he will live past his Maker’s.

Or Godric could stay, let his childe or grandchilde find him and visit one last time. Hope in vain their presence allows the wound to bleed away some of the infection. If they cannot ease this stillness, then there is truly no hope for Godric to remain wandering this earth.

For as reasonable as the second decision is, Godric is all the more fearful for it. Erik has been his joy for a thousand years and to find that even his presence can’t change the turmoil that wrecks his mind and body will be all the more devastating.

Godric would rather never see his childe again than to learn their love is not enough to keep him bound to this side of the veil.

Wouldn’t it be easier, _kinder,_ to slip away from this world without anyone knowing he was going?

His thoughts must have wandered too far before the jarring of the doorknob startles him back into the present. It cost him precious time to remove both his scent and himself from the room. Erik is right outside the door, still unaware of who waits inside his office. Godric can still leave, can vanish into thin air before the door opens and reveals his presence to his childe. The evidence of him being there can not be removed as quickly and sooner rather than later Erik will search him out to figure out what made Godric leave before seeing him.

And with his focus so centered on his Maker, he might very well hit close to the truth what is really going on with Godric.

By the time the door opens his choice is already out of his hands.

* * *

It is both easy and difficult to fall into a human’s pace. Easy in the sense that everything they do has meaning or purpose and they feel things so deeply, something that _made_ them slow down to their speed and experience each moment as if it will be their last. It draws him in, made _living_ a little more vibrant than it has been before. There is always something new to look forwards to when interesting humans are involved.

Difficult, though, to understand their reasoning, their need for morality and their insecure ways of life. For every moment of intense emotion there is another three for needless drama that is useless and needlessly pertaining to their lives. They want him to conform to their way of life, a life that is so very short, instead of taking advice from those older and wiser than them. There’s a time and a place for questions and answers, and in his world it’s always behind closed doors where no one can see them.

Sookie Shackhouse is both of these things. While she lived every moment with intense emotions strumming through her heart and hormones in the air, the part that made her so desirable to him, her _humanity_ , spurns him just as much. She is entertaining, _fascinating_ , and not just because of her blood. Though Eric will admit that’s what drew him to her.

It is her fearlessness that ultimately draws him to her. Of course she was nervous, she’d be _stupid_ not to be in a room full of vampires, but she steeled her spine and tilted her chin when asking her questions. She dared to quip back to his childe and was clearly reckless enough to open her mouth to give a warning.

Her telepathy is certainly a surprise, but not an unwelcomed one. The unique gift she has come in great use the first night he met her, and the following meeting about the missing income. He will gladly pay her for her services, allowing her to stop waitressing at the bar in Bon Temp. For such a gift to go to waste is a shame and he hopes that she would one day see her potential in their world is much greater than her own.

Eric has lived for a thousand years, and while he’s tasted many females in his time, he will admit that when it comes to the fairer sex he has a preference for blonde. With her sun-kissed skin and heavy assets, she would have had men clamoring for her attention in his human life. Many would have thought her goddess-blessed, if not a goddess herself. In today’s modern day they focus on a woman’s waist and breast size, the gap between the thighs and eye color. They want less and at the same time more, unable to see you have to have one or the other when it came to preference.

He’ll admit that her beauty caught his eye, but what made it stay on her is a different matter. Innocence. Sweet and pure, not once touched with a male hand. It whispers to him in her blood, a siren’s call to delve beneath the waves and taste the coral that blooms under the ocean floor. Even in his day and age purity was thought of something to loose quickly, and to a point he still felt that way.

That doesn’t change the desire of her, the sweet nectar on her skin as tempting as the mead from his homeland. While purity might not be desired in either modern or in the Iron Age, the true appeal of them is in the blood. To know nothing has tainted the cells apart from nature itself was appetizing. It is undiluted, refreshing as a waterfall, and could very well be the best mortal scent he’ll ever smell. He can’t imagine what her blood will taste like.

Of course, there is only one scent better than even hers, and as soon as he twists the door knob to his office it invades his senses.

Beyond any reasoning he is desperate to know that it’s not just his nose playing tricks on him. It’s been so long since he last saw his Maker, a little over a hundred years baring their brief meet up in 1945 where they left on a bad note. With the bond closed off on Godric’s side there hasn’t been any communication between childe and sire since then, and before that the silence was even longer.

It gnaws at him and his childe to not know what’s going on in Godric’s head, to not know exactly what they have done for him to cut them off in such a way. It is an echoing abyss they have gotten used to, though neither of them want to feel like that towards a missing limb.

He is here though, right behind his office door. Waiting.

With a mere push of the door, gentle and light, scared that even the slightest movement will make the illusion evaporate into thin air. There he is, as serene as ever, sitting in his chair behind the desk. It should have dwarfed him, should have made him look like a child sitting in their father’s chair, but it doesn’t. Like everything Godric does it is regal, grace lacing every tendon and a strength so deeply rooted into his very essence belied in thin pale arms.

Godric has grown out his hair since Germany, his ebony locks caressing his neck and bangs swooping into his eyes. He looked more like a teenager in this age than the man of his own. Someone must have convinced Godric to go the more modern look for his eternal age and he must have humored them.

His chest is covered by a long sleeved deep blue shirt, hiding away all of his tattoos with only his collar bone ink peeking through. It isn’t skin tight, hiding the muscles Eric know to be under them. The sleeves fall over the back of his hands, and his black pants cling to every facet of his physique.

No matter who he had humored though, Godric must have drawn a line at the shoes. What a typical teenager would have worn are sneakers or tennis shoes, but Godric has never taken to footwear unless it’s for combat situations. He wore simple sandals, easy to slip off at a given notice for him to feel the ground beneath his feet.

Eric walks over to him slowly, a thousand thoughts racing in his head even as he desperately tries to slow them. Eric doesn’t want to know _why_ Godric is here, only that he _is_. Before long he is at his Maker’s side, kneeling beside him as Godric turns his face from the far wall, having just come out of thought.

If he was anyone else Eric would have called them foolish and careless to get so caught up in their head to not notice their surroundings. But this is his Maker, who is always aware and on guard. Whatever made Godric close off their bond, this one action shows Eric that Godric still trusts him. That he has allowed himself to go into downtime with Eric near means he knows his childe would never do anything to put him in danger and to attack anything that could pose a threat to him.

This one act alone almost brings him to tears.

When sea-green eyes land on him he can’t help the smile that breaks across his lips, which are mirrored by his Maker’s own. He takes his Sire’s hand, never letting their eye contact waver as he kisses Godric’s palm. Without further ado Godric leans forward, taking his childe’s face into his hands and presses their foreheads together.

“Godric,” he whispers with reverence, unable to stand the silence that has settled around them a moment longer. His own hands come up to clasp his Maker’s forearms, unwilling to allow either of them to be drawn away from this moment. How long has it been since he had embraced Godric? Eric and he had not touched in 1945, and before that he had been busy with Pam’s newborn status.

“Erik,” warmth _drips_ from his lips, his tongue caressing the short syllable as it falls from his mouth. Godric has never modernized his name, never allowed the softening of the _‘c’_ in favor of the harsh _‘k.’_ Whenever he speaks there is the barest hint of an accent he has never been able to place a name to, a language long forgotten and only remembered by its last speaker. It wouldn’t have even been noticeable to anyone but Eric, who has devoted endless years simply listening to his Maker. “It is good to see you.”

It shouldn’t have such an effect on him, and if it was anyone else he would have brushed off the pleasantry, but this is _Godric._ Godric who never says anything he doesn’t mean, who doesn’t do small talk and meaningless chatter. Who conveys endless emotions with a shift of his eyes or a tilt of his head. It’s his subtle but no less meaningful way of explaining that whatever has kept him apart from his childe it doesn’t have anything to do with him.

“How long are you staying?” he asks the dreaded question. He needs to know how much time he can take up being by his side, how long he will be able to cherish every moment before Godric is to the wind once more, possibly going back to Texas to watch over his area depending on his leave.

“A few weeks,” Godric says. “Unless there’s an emergency that Isabel can’t handle and she’s forced to call me back.”

While not a countdown, and more time than what he has guessed, Eric can’t help but want more. He will always want more time with his Maker, always another minute, week, year, _millennium_. There is no amount of time that can ever be enough to fill with Godric.

Eric leans forwards, breaking eye contact with him to dive into his embrace. He settles between his thighs, wrapping his arms around Godric’s torso, pressing as close as he can. Eric will never be able to be close enough, but this is as close as physically possible at the moment. Godric doesn’t immediately return the embrace, but that’s not unusual. Eric might not know much about his Maker’s past, but it’s safe to assume in his early years, whether human or vampire, Godric was not touched often.

After a moment Godric wraps his arms around his childe, cocooning him into a familiar embrace.

He will never hear the heartbeat of Godric, and never again will his drum inside of his chest. Nevertheless he imagines if their organs did work, they would have been beating in sync. In place of the heart, their blood sings their reunion.

“ _Fader_ ,” Eric mummers, placing a chaste press of the lips to his creator’s neck. “Welcome home.”

It’s barely noticeable but his Maker’s arms tighten just the briefest amount around him, pulling him closer to his breast bone.

“ _Son._ It’s good to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this story is about Godric's depression and how it can be dealt with. While there will be fluff, it won't be for quite a few chapters. With so many Godric Lives stories not taking into account that he won't be all better just because Sookie/Eric/OC talked him down from the roof, I decided to try my hand at it. Things will not be easy for Eric or Godric in his recovery. It's going to be messy and heartbreaking and there will be a lot of relapses.
> 
> I have a lot of experience with depression, as not only did I take a class studying various mental illnesses, but also it runs in my family. I hope I can do the struggle justice.


	2. Disturbed Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm going to tentatively say every Tuesday I'm going to try to upload.~~
> 
> ~~Second Tuesday of every month.~~ False. I don't know when I'll update.

They don’t fall back into place, as Godric has half-hoped. For all that he is dear to Erik, he has his own life. His duties take over most of his night and Erik can’t stay up during the day at his age. He’s able to stay up later than most, and get up earlier than others, but Godric goes most of the day without being drawn to his death-state. At high noon he gets the bleeds and drowsy, though not strong enough to drag him under.

It leaves a lot of time with only his thoughts. In Dallas he had been able to keep busy going over his area’s affairs, but here he has no such use. His own estates are well kept and up to date, not needing another check-in from anywhere from a week to a month. Erik won’t appreciate his input on his area, and even if he does Godric wouldn’t have much to say. For all that Erik is basically being forced to take the position, he runs a tight ship and the residents in his area are pleased to be under his reign.

Erik has done well for himself.

The more time he spends observing his progeny the more he’s convinced he’s not needed. His childe is loyal and gives Erik trouble when he grows bored. He’s powerful, with respect of his kind and while he still has to learn to tame his temper at times, that comes with age and experience. The Queen of Louisiana could give his childe trouble but Erik could over throw her at any time. He doesn’t because he doesn’t want to deal with the territory, but Erik was born to be a king.

He is lonely. Much like himself, Erik has been placed on a pedestal, but unlike Godric, his underlings still see Erik as a person. They fear and respect him to different degrees, and he helps shield his people from their sovereign’s sometimes ridiculous demands.

The Viking interacts with his juniors nearly every day, for both pleasure and business. Erik has them help with the club for those who can’t pay the taxes or those who need extra income. The others who are patrons not only enjoy the club but help bring in customers. The vampires are allowed to interact in a safe environment, both for themselves and the humans.

Godric, even knowing that the place was made to be a punishment for his childe and grandchilde, wishes that his area had such a place for easy interactions. While the humans can get annoying and sometimes cause problems for the other patrons, it does bring them to a perceived even ground.

Alas, such a thing is impossible in Dallas at this point in time. With the rise of the hate-group masquerading as a church, human and vampiric relationships don’t have any hope of decreasing from their aggressive state. Even as he sits here, encouraged by his Second to take time for himself, Godric can’t help but feel that he should be in his territory making sure things don’t escalate.

He was put in charge of Area 9 for a reason. The Authority had hoped with a vampire of significant age and power would make others think before making relations deteriorate. Unbeknown to them, it seems to have only made things worse. While younger vampires will follow his lead, the humans put no stock in the age that made up the vampire. To them he looks young, so even if told of his origins the possibility of _danger_ won’t make the connection for them until he does something threatening right in front of their eyes.

Before the Great Revelation, Dallas was mostly peaceful. While yes, many of the young ones have a great prejudice towards humans, one in particular that comes to mind is Stan, but they kept it to themselves with nowhere to lash out without being punished for it. Now that they’ve been given a target, an outlet, it just made his once-peaceful territory full of turbulence.

Godric has reservations about the Revelation himself. While able to be held accountable for the crimes committed in the shadows is something he has advocated for, he’s realistic enough to know that humans can’t really do anything to them for punishments. Sure, there’s silver and sunlight and starvation, but to capture one of them, especially one of the older ones who have more assets and their list of crimes spanning the length of their own lifespan, is near impossible.

It’s said that other vampires will hold them to the mark, but the fact of the matter is it’s a coin toss to each vampire on whether they’ll care about the crime committed. Many of the misdemeanors committed and their fees to humans are for show only, with many being akin to a slap on the wrist. Felonies against other vampires are more severe, having lifespans like theirs the punishment has to stick for some years what with the “victim” carrying a grudge.

With the younglings in the Authority, excluding a few Ancients younger than himself, trying to take power from elder vampires it won’t end well. They think they’ll be able to make some laws and demands and the Ancients will fold. But the problem with those ideas is that Ancients don’t get to be as old as they are from bowing to others.

They’ve conquered masses of land, defeated other lines, made themselves feared in every way of the world and gathered allies. They won’t step back because the younger ones are clamoring for influence. They’ll look after each other to keep the balance of power and will stonewall all attempts of taking it away.

Godric isn’t any different, truly. While he’s certainly not the oldest, he is very much in the top percentages. The fact of the matter is for all that he’s been a vampire for two thousand years, he’s stronger than many thrice his age.

His Maker, Appius, had not only been from an ancient line, but had been one of the older Ancients. The bond between them _should_ have been strong, with Appius having felt the Makers Call towards Godric. They should have had a relationship similar to Godric’s own progeny and himself, if not stronger with the passage of time. Appius was cruel however, and whatever bond they could have had were stuffed out in Godric’s human life.

The bond, whatever had remained, should have kept Godric from ever making a move against his Maker. The blood flowing through Appius should have made sure of it, overwhelming any action against its source. It hadn’t been the case, a surprise for both Godric and Appius when it was revealed.

Godric had been closing in on two hundred years under Appius’s rule. He had sworn he would find a way to, if not kill Appius, at least get out from under his eye. But bloodlust and revenge are great motivators and at some point his survival hadn’t been one of his goals. Godric wanted Appius dead and it didn’t matter if he was soon to follow.

The two hundred year old vampire had drained his Maker dry, taking in his creator’s ancient blood and assimilating it into himself. Godric had drank every last drop of his vile essence, determined that Appius would die the same way he had killed Godric.

He had wanted to do more, torture him for years on end like he had done to his childe, but if he didn’t want to be caught before he could escape his death had to be a fast one instead of the slow death he had been anticipating.

Whoever had been Appius’ Maker, if they were still alive, had never come forwards seeking vengeance. That doesn’t mean his cohorts didn’t.

For every assassin they sent at him he returned them burned to ash. When they became too boring and bothersome to deal with, starting to intervene in his daily life, he made it a point to track all of his Maker’s old friends down and drain them as well.

Even with the reemergence of his conscience those acts of revenge and bloodlust never weighed on his mind. If he were to go back he would have done the exact same thing.

No, his battle with his ethics nowadays has nothing to do with his apparent sins against his own. What haunts him these days were the many mortals that were thrown in his path as he walked the night alone, and eventually with Erik.

Appius had known what would disgust him most when he rose from his transformation. To his tribe children were sacred and to lay a hand on them were punishable by death. It’s said that their first taste of blood becomes their favored flavor, and on some level it’s true.

His Maker had made sure his first victim was a child.

Godric can’t even describe how disgusted with himself he was when he came to from his first bloodlust. Can’t put to words the struggle he had with himself and the simple act of _feeding_ that grew from his first taste of red liquid. For the longest time Appius had forced him to feed his aversion was so great. Even after his Maker’s death he couldn’t stop completely, his body outright refusing sometimes to accept older blood no matter how many times he choked it down. His thirst couldn’t be sedated.

In the end he had to ween himself off of young blood. He took enough blood to satisfy his thirst for many years, and then continued to lessen the amount. By the time he found and made Erik the drive had faded into almost nothing, converting to only a distant longing.

The Gaul soon after his trial relished in the horror and fear that humans felt, no longer held back from his own bloodlust. He became a true nightmare to the humans, a cryptid to those who crossed roads with him. He discovered their deepest and darkest secrets with just a glance and exploited them without remorse for his own amusement. He had toppled civilizations and kingdoms for fun and started wars over the most minor inconveniences. Godric left oceans of blood in his wake and became feared as _Death_ even amongst his own kind.

If it wasn’t for his childe, Godric doesn’t know if he would have ever found his way back from that blood soaked path.

He had tried to stay ethical with Erik, tried to dig up whatever mortal moral code a part of him still clung to. He went after rapist and pedophiles, abusers and serial killers for many years. Godric tried to follow the forgotten oath he had made all those years ago in his first unclouded moments in this new life. He renewed his vow when he spotted Erik among the battlefield, wanting to give him something _better_ than what his own Maker gave him.

It was _tiring_ though, scoping out the good from the bad. What was the use of such terms when they all died in the end, one way or another? Wouldn’t it be kinder, he had thought, to rid the world of the gentler humans so they didn’t suffer in this illusion of happiness? Didn’t share the same space as the horrid muck that breathed the same air?

Who stated his thirst and desire for blood no longer mattered, though even at his worst he kept away from the children. He had no desire to slip down that path again, and even less longing to remember the beginning of such vices.

Godric had hoped teaching Erik nothing was right or wrong would help him later in life. And it did for some time. Erik took to his new life well, following his Maker’s lead in all things after he had shed his mortal views. In the beginning the actual act of feeding was touch and go, but he was a survivor above all else and he simply needed time to adapt. Once he had that down nothing was stopping him.

For good or bad, Erik will probably never enter the crisis that has befallen his Maker. Godric has molded Erik too well to fit their world. Even now, in his own moral dilemma, Godric can’t help but be thankful for that. His childe will never second guess himself, will never falter in his chosen path because of concepts such as virtues or sins. One might see this as a bad thing, but if his childe changed directions onto Godric’s own road he has no idea what he would do.

The Ancient has interwoven so much of his being with Erik that should his childe die he will have already forfeited his life. He might last long enough to deliver a finishing blow to Erik’s killer, but he will soon follow him to the True Death.

Perhaps he had meant for such an outcome to happen, subconsciously. Makers his age either didn’t become close enough to be utterly devastated by their children’s death or had more than one childe to ground them if something did happen. He didn’t think he consciously chose to not make another progeny. It felt like Erik would be the best he would ever make, so why tarnish that achievement and find another lacking?

He will have become the type of Maker he despises.

For all that he doesn’t mourn Appius’ death, and even rejoices in his demise, he can’t change the nature of what they are or what they could have been. The potential for their bond was so strong that even after two millennium there is still an ache where it could have been. It feels as if Appius has shoved a hand in his chest and ripped a piece away and taken it to his grave. When he took Appius into himself, when Appius took Godric into himself, he questions if he didn’t take more than his blood and body. When the ache is strongest he wonders if it is his Maker’s way of having the last word from beyond the veil.

In the early dawn or the breaking of dusk, if he is a weaker man than his vampiric age, he questions if it was something he had done that made them so incompatible in the end. If Appius had seen a chieftain of a once prospering alliance that could have built itself into a kingdom given enough time brought to his knees and found him lacking.

Godric speculates if they had met in different circumstances if they would’ve been closer than Erik and himself.

Those thoughts are carefully hidden away in the far recesses of his mind, far away from his bonds with his childe and grandchilde and shoved deeper into the gaping wound that has never clotted over.

What-ifs has never helped anyone and as much as Godric likes to drive himself into despair nowadays, his Maker isn’t a topic he dwells on. Too much rage and hatred and sharp cuts that only dig deeper into open wounds.

The broken shards that stare back at him reflect everything he is. What his Maker has made him.

Godric wonders what Erik can find in him to be worth the devotion his childe has so freely given.

The Ancient knows his progeny well and his childe has always fallen so easily when given the opportunity. He fell for Godric and his offer of life, fell for the London Madam in San Francisco, giving into her demands and his own instincts to become a Maker even when he felt he wasn’t ready. Even now he falls for the Halfling with telepathic abilities.

He supposes that it should sting, should make the ache in his chest worse when Erik is easily captivated by the mortal instead of his eternal family. It does, to a point. The problem is he’s become used to the numbness that has iced his veins that even a stake wouldn’t be able to penetrate the shell surrounding him.

Mostly he is grateful. It shows him one more piece of his childe isn’t his, he’s grown up and can form attachments outside of their bloodline. It will make the transition easier when he leaves, having others support Erik at what could be his lowest.

Beyond that, he is thankful for the distraction Miss Stackhouse provides. She pulls Erik’s attention away from him, allows him to breathe when he feels he’s suffocating. When she’s there, and sometimes even when she isn’t, she draws Erik’s focus and leaves him to wander Erik’s territory.

He does it often, wandering down the mostly deserted streets than he did in his own area. There he would have been undoubtedly stopped at one point or another, but here he is a visitor with no real importance other than what Erik has placed on him. They do not know him and therefore don’t go up for a conversation.

Always, even when he tries his best to avoid it, his feet wander to the way of a bridge that faces the rising of the sun, a steady stream passing by underneath. He imagines many mortals met their end here, by their own hand or others. If he jumps into the rushing water nothing will actually happen to him. He’ll get pulled under but won’t drown.

It’s the rising sun that will be his end instead of the water his people loved so dearly.

Temptation is said to be a sin in the overtaking that Christianity has amassed. It probably is. Every time he’s left the club he’s found his way to this bridge and stared at the point where the sun would meet the night sky. In the last few seconds before the sun is visible to the human eye he has to force himself to move, to seek shelter away from the burning absolution.

Very much like right now, trying to convince his legs to move and telling himself not today.

_Not yet._

* * *

He watches Godric, like he always has. Like he always will. Even when he speaks to another part of his attention is always on his Maker. Eric watches the seemingly-teenager flint about his establishment, patrons ignorant of what and who walks among them.

Erik and Godric have always been at odds when revealing their status of Maker and Childe. They’re both equally split between revealing it and keeping it hidden. They’ve never wanted to make the other a target, never wanted to give up such a glaring weakness to outsiders. In their many years of living this unlife, they have both accumulated many enemies. Their allies, which are the greater of the two, will come to their aid if need be, but they both agreed they would only be called upon for the most valuable of agendas.

And what is more important to both Childe and Maker than one another? If something did happen to one of them, the other would rein down hellfire before following.

At the end of the day, they’re both possessive of one another. Eric wants to proudly bare the marks of his Maker on his neck and Godric wants the assurance of knowing their connected in every way, which sometimes includes human traditions, by taking up his last name. They hate that they can’t show their devotion to one another in front of others, can’t snarl at someone coming too close to the other without raising suspicion.

His Maker’s reasonable nature always come out on top of any desire to stake his claim. Godric has always been more level headed than Eric. Thinking things through and knowing patience that even after a thousand years by his side Eric still doesn’t have a firm grasp on. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Eric knows that other vampires begin to feel a sense of inadequacy after being under their Maker’s care for so long. To be released is usually a great achievement, a point in their new life that their caretaker has determined that the younger vampire is able to make it on their own. Eric has never fully understood the sense of shame that others feel at being tied so closely to their creator.

The Viking relishes in his connection to Godric and the strengthening of their bond throughout the centuries. Every time they exchanged blood, drinking each other in a circle to completion, their awareness of each other has only increased. He can’t imagine not being connected to Godric in such a way, much less being ashamed of it.

He has and never will be embarrassed of being Godric’s. Other vampires with flimsy connections can feel as disgusted with themselves as they like, Eric will gladly continue basking in his Maker’s affections for all eternity.

Or at least he had. Whatever made his Sire close off their bond still hasn’t been resolved in the last century they hadn’t seen each other. Godric has always been private, wanting to figure things out on his own before coming for a second opinion if he needed one. It has never taken this much time, nor these drastic measures, for Godric to get a grasp on things. To know he hasn’t even after all these years? Eric worries.

He worries in a way he hasn’t since just before Godric and he separated soon after he made Pam. When Eric was told by his Maker that he couldn’t follow him without endangering his childe, something Godric would never allow, he found it in himself to resent his new status as a Maker and could bring himself to begrudge Pam for a short amount of time for not allowing him to follow his Sire.

The blond had been terrified, and trying desperately not to show it, of what would come next. Neither he nor Godric had any idea how long it would take for Pam’s thirst to die down enough for him to follow after. When Childe and Maker are separated for long periods of time it is commonly accepted it is because the childe is ready to leave their Maker. And while Eric can live on his own, that doesn’t necessarily means he wants to.

Unlike his childe, Eric has no desire to be independent from his Sire. He’s gone out in the world, made a name for himself, received respect and praise and fear, built his capita to live comfortably without issue. It all pales in comparison to Godric’s fond looks he doesn’t try to hide when they’re alone, doesn’t even begin to parallel the joy he receives when he’s able to surprise his Maker, rare though it may be.

Others have come to the conclusion that he must have been released many centuries ago from his Maker’s hold. That because of his confidence and borderline flamboyance in the face of others lesser than him, he must not have to answer to anyone he does not wish to. Eric looks at their bond that glows brighter than a dwarf star, senses the depth of emotion between the two of them, and wonder how he can possibly let this slip through his fingers.

If he is honest with himself, which he tries to be, Eric can’t even think beyond the severing of their cut cord. Everything he has become used his bond with Godric as a foundation for everything he could be. To lose it would change everything he stands for and shatter him, leaving him in the ruins of who he used to be. It would be far more effective than any form of torture one wished to deal out to him.

The very thought of something happening to Godric sends turmoil through his useless organs. They’ve intertwined their essences so tightly, drank blood from each other so much, that there are times Eric can’t discern where he ends and Godric begins. If anything were to happen to his Maker the younger vampire knows with a certainty that only mortals know death comes for them all, that Eric will not survive the separation.

He banishes such thoughts, unwilling to even contemplate a life without Godric. He dismisses the what-ifs and focuses on the now, watching the god he’s come to worship sway around others as to avoid their touch.

For as long as Eric can remember Godric has been an extreme when it comes to their kind’s dislike of contact. Vampires don’t like their food touching them in general, but before the Revelation it was easier to set that boundary. Now that they’ve come out of the coffin, so to speak, they can no longer deal away with such trespasses as easily. Their own kind’s way of communicating came down to body language, the slightest shift in movement, dip of the head, or even a brush against the arm conveying what words can’t. They’re used sparingly, a common gesture all the more significant when not used often.

Godric has more issue than most when it comes to anyone touching him. Vampires and humans alike are spurred away from making contact. Usually even to be looked at from him for more than a glance is a great allowance. The only people who touch him, and he touches in return, are those of his bloodline.

Eric has always thought it fitting. Why allow others to put hands to his creator when they’re clearly unworthy of being in his presence? It is only right that those he allows interaction with him are an extension of himself.

It is easy to get caught up in his thoughts of Godric that time tends to fly away from him. The bar is closing, the object of his thoughts standing next to Pam by the bar, an unopen True Blood between them. He saunters over to his two most important people, sliding up behind Godric in a way no other can, fitting their bodies together like they’ve done countless times before.

His Maker keeps talking, no tension in his body, and once again a thrill of pleasure races down his spine.

Eric finds he likes listening to the two of them speak, loves that his childe looks for Godric’s approval just as much as he. His Maker had laughed at him when Eric came to him with childe because it hadn’t even been a day with Pamela and she was still prissy and uncooperative with everything he did. Godric had found amusement in his suffering, calling it karma for his own behavior along the years.

The Viking slides his hand to his Sire’s hip, curling closer as he eyes the unopened bottle of the vile substance that fills their nutritious needs but not their thirst. It gives them the barebones of what they need to survive, much like a prisoner gets a piece of bread and the barest of water every three days when in captivity. They can, if need be, live on it but it will never be fulfilling, always feeling as if they are on the brick of starvation.

He rubs his thumb on Godric’s hipbone, soothingly, as he bends down slightly to reach his ear. He doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t even regulate his voice, but he enjoys the intimacy of the act.

“I can arrange for an AB- human for you, extremely rare,” he boasts his ability to provide. “You don’t have to drink such filth.” He hates that he has tasted the horrible drink, let alone thinking of his Maker letting it slip past his own lips.

Godric has never really had a preference for blood types unlike other vampires. There’s always the preference of those who take care of their bodies but that’s something all vampire strive for unless they want the humans high. As long as it’s warm and runs thick, Godric has thought of blood as blood. No flavor has ever swayed him one way or another.

His Maker reaches over to his own hand to gently squeeze it before saying, “Thank you, Eric. But I’m not hungry.”

At these words something uneasy settles in his stomach. He shares a glance with Pam, both finding something not right. Maybe it’s the wording, or the tone, but it feels like Godric is saying something else than what his words imply. He’s just about to inquire what’s wrong when a delicious scent wafts in from the opening door, completely forgetting his unsettled feeling.

Bill Compton, the vampire that moved into his area and didn’t report in immediately, races in. In his arms is a bleeding Sookie, who he also won over before Eric even had the chance of making his own case, unconscious of everything around her.

In an instant he’s turning around and placing seats on the floor, clearing a table to place her on.

“What happened?” he barks at the almost two century year old vampire. This is the human he claimed all those nights ago, the one he had apparently fallen in love with in less than a week, and here he arrives with her precious life energy spilling out of her by the pint. Why hasn’t he given her his blood to heal her?

“She was attacked by this… beast. Came out of nowhere. I’ve given her my blood but it’s not healing her,” Bill defends himself, knowing very well were this might go and just what Eric might offer to steal Sookie right under his nose.

“My blood is stronger,” Eric tells him, already going for the bite on his wrist before Bill can even offer a token of protest. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

Godric is holding onto his wrist before his teeth can sink into his own flesh, giving him a stare so blank it begins to hurt to look at him. Something about that look is too similar to the last time they had met, when he fed the werewolf girl his blood for information. He can almost hear the words from back then echoing in Godric’s gaze.

_The blood is sacred._

Before he can even begin to repent, or come up with an argument of why he should be allowed to break this standard of Godric’s, his Maker is turning Sookie over to clearly see the wounds on her back. They’re deep and messy things, very much animalistic in nature. Unlike a vampire or a werewolf, even a shifter in this manner, and unlike anything Eric has seen.

He takes a hand, running down the length of the claw marks and coming away bloodied. Bill makes a move to say something, or possibly stop him, but a look from their bloodline stops him from saying a word. Lifting the red liquid to his nose, he scents it. Godric doesn’t say anything for a moment, closing his eyes to think.

“A maenad,” he finally states. He opens his eyes and stares thoughtfully down at his hand. None of the younger vampires around him know what a maenad is, and Godric makes no move to inform them. “The wound is poisoned. Pamela, call Doctor Ludwig. She’ll have a solution to help dissolve the substance.”

Pam doesn’t waste a second to get her phone out, already dialing the old hag’s number. Godric leaves the room, probably to look around the immediate area for this maenad creature. He hopes that his Maker takes the opportunity to taste the blonde’s blood, no matter how incredibly jealous he is at the moment.

Eric can’t remember the last time he’s wanted blood as badly as he has hers.

He sits down next to the southern belle, across from Bill, and settles in for a wait until the doctor can get here. Eric barely acknowledges the southern vampire, focused on the blonde as he is. She’s paler than he’s ever seen her with her sun-kissed skin, and her curls are matted with blood and tangles. Her clothes, what is left of them, are drenched down the back.

His piercing gaze doesn’t stray from Sookie for even a moment.


	3. Void Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slight platonic smut. Sort of.

Contrary to Erik’s belief, Godric doesn’t lick the female’s blood from his hand. The Halfling will never compare to her full-blooded relatives, or even other Halflings. Even if he could stomach blood at the moment her plasma wouldn’t be nearly as desirable as the others of her kind he’s tasted in the past.

He washes away the physical red liquid, knowing he can’t do the same to the metaphorical.

The Ancient is glad that William interrupted when he did. His childe would have pushed for more information regarding his lack of appetite and Godric doesn’t have any answers. Along with his mental and emotional stability his thirst has decreased as well. Nowadays he’s lucky enough if he can get down a mouthful of fresh running blood, let alone a bottle of synthetic.

Blood. It always comes down to blood.

How many times has he told Erik that their blood is not to be shared unless it is for the making of a Childe? Has he not implored it over the centuries they’ve been together? For one of his very few values to be discarded all too quickly by his childe tries his leniency. Has he truly failed in teaching his son his most important principle?

He must have for Erik to quickly abandon it, not once, but twice in the same century.

Staring into the mirror he wonders where he went wrong. Godric thought he had hammered in the magnitude of such an act. The Ancient knows he failed in many regards regarding human morals. He was sure he had imparted proper respect for their ways, if nothing else.

Their blood is what animates them into living, what gives them power beyond life. To give one another their blood stakes a claim that will forever mark them for the rest of their immortal existence. They give a piece of themselves when blood exchanges hands, always aware of every movement their lifeblood makes in the other.

It’s mainly one-sided unless the transition occurs. The mortal has to deal with the vampire knowing their location and emotions, but they don’t get any in return. Instead they gain strength, a faster healing factor, and the high of life. There isn’t an equal exchange between them which makes it all the more delicate when proceeding with such acts.

Erik had been lucky in Germany. The blood hadn’t had a chance to settle in, the bond not even beginning to form before Godric killed her. It would have taken less than an hour for their consciousness to begin merging and if killed after there would have been a permanent effect on Erik.

What if rejecting the very base of their existence is just the start of how much Godric has forsaken in teaching his progeny? What if there is more and this just the most obvious form of contempt from his childe? If Godric has failed in this aspect what else has he failed at?

How neglectful of a Maker has he been?

Looking at his reflection makes him want to break the mirror. He’s tempted, he’s always tempted. There will be questions if he does. No matter how much he wishes to see himself shattered into a million pieces and feel the burn of cut skin on his knuckles, he can’t afford it at the moment. Erik might not be paying attention at the moment, but Pamela is.

He can’t afford for them to find out.

Taking a deep, unnecessary breath, he settles his doubt and anger and disappointment behind thick walls. He checks the bonds to his bloodline and finds them beginning to weaken, taking a moment to reinforce the barrier separating the three of them. It’s unnatural to keep a block up for so long but Godric doesn’t have a choice in this matter. The over-spillage will overwhelm them and might very well take his children down with him.

Settling himself, Godric leaves the bathroom to return to the main room. What he finds is his childe and the southern vampire and his human exactly as he left them. They don’t notice his entrance, and he shares an exasperated look with his grandchilde before he joins her at the bar. Hopping up on the counter instead of the seat earns him a raised eyebrow and an amused turn of the lips, but he only gives his own smile before turning to look back at her Maker.

With his grandchilde next to him, he takes in his progeny’s posture and positioning. His every focus is on the human before him, unconsciously counting each breath she takes and how many times her heart beats. Erik is memorizing her every movement, subconsciously preparing himself if she doesn’t make it, hopeful though he is in her recovery once the doctor arrives.

Erik’s actions make Godric wonder.

When the Gaul had left his childe in California in order to make his way further East to meet up with the center base of what had become the vampire’s version of the New World, he hadn’t released the Viking. Who knows why he didn’t, Erik is obviously ready to take his steps in the world without his Maker. In fact he almost did.

Maybe he didn’t because with Erik kneeling before him, prepared for it but begging differently, silently with his eyes, it stayed the words on the tip of his tongue. Even back then, desperate as he had been to find something to spark his passion again, he had an inkling where his path would likely end. If he had been stronger, he would have. He wants to spare Erik this pain.

Godric’s own Maker hadn’t released him at the time of his demise and they hadn’t cared for one another like Erik and he do. Still the absent of his presence weighs down on his shoulders, hanging around him like a never ending abyss where the fraying connection is ripped to pieces.

If Appius’ True Death affects him this much with nothing but hatred and contempt between them, what will Godric be subjecting Erik to after he’s gone?

A part of him wonders if he didn’t make a mistake all those years ago on the West Coast of America. If he didn’t make the right choice.

He should have forgone his childe’s wish and released him right there. Should have left and made sure Erik would never find him, if he had even wanted to after their parting. Godric should have done more to remove his presence to soften the blow that will one day come for his Viking.

It’s too late now. If Godric had released Erik all those years ago, his progeny would have accepted it and gone about his life. But now with the years that separated them in between them, with no reason to give Erik for his sudden decision, he’ll become suspicious. He’ll poke and prod and demand an answer like he wouldn’t have in the 1900s. If he doesn’t get one, he’ll find out the reasoning on his own.

In the end as much as Erik didn’t want to be released, Godric hadn’t wanted to release him.

It’s selfish of him. To be bound so tightly to his childe and rip it away, not even being here to deal with the aftermath. He was selfish when he made Erik, selfish when he left, selfish when he stays. The fact of the matter is Godric doesn’t know how to do right by Erik before and after he is gone. What is kind and what is cruel? Are they the same thing in the end no matter what outcome he strives towards? Godric doesn’t know and he’s running out of time to find out.

The Ancient needs Erik to listen to him one last time before he’s gone. If nothing else, if he never listens to anything he said again for the rest of his immortal life, when the time comes he must hear his Maker’s last command and not hesitate to follow it.

Godric knows his childe and Erik won’t allow him to go peacefully. He’ll threaten and shout and yell, he’ll sprout words of contempt and betrayal and honor and oaths. If he interferes before Godric is able to meet the sun he’ll try to stop him physically if he allows it. Barring that, if he cannot stop his Maker he’ll try to convince Godric to let Erik go with him. Erik loves too deeply and promised to be his companion through the dark, and because of his loyalty he will never _willingly_ leave his Sire’s side when he meets his end.

For as much as Godric loves Erik and all he has to offer, he wishes Erik didn’t care so deeply for him. It would have been easier if Godric had been less hands on in raising his son, should have taken a step back and let him stumble and fall more often without a helping hand. To not be so emotionally reliant on one another. Maybe then Erik wouldn’t be bound to him so thoroughly.

It would make everything easier if both Maker and childe didn’t care for one another as much as they do.

What is Godric to do? Erik’s devotion, which he’ll never understand how he earned, is something he has always cherished. Now it stands in between him and his end. The promise which freed Erik has now shackled Godric.

The teenager frozen in time doesn’t have a clue how to answer any of those questions. Doesn’t even know where to begin. All he does know is that no matter what he’s tired of fighting this never-ending wave of nothing that has eroded in his soul.

Doctor Ludwig arrives silently, her heartbeat steady when going into a lions’ den. She’s older than Godric had last seen her, like so many mortals are. She’s still short with bones jutting out every which way, and still just as much of a fan of vampires as she’s always been.

She doesn’t do any pleasantries, moving to the human’s side before she can be directed. She’s halfway through the room when Erik picks up his chair and moves it to lean against a close wall to watch the procedure. His progeny has dealt with Ludwig before and knows she likes to get straight to work.

The doctor cuts through the white shirt the injured patient is wearing to get full access to the human’s abrasions. Only once her tools are safely sanitized and her hands covered does she begin to prod at the claw marks. The pain jostles the Halfling out of her unconscious state and brings her to a drowsy awareness.

“What,” she halts, trying to catch her breath. “What kind of Doctor are you?”

“The healing kind,” she raises her voice, whether for Sookie’s benefit to hear her in her state of awareness or to bother them is up for grabs. She presses her hand over one of the lacerations, trying to determine how deep they actually are by the human’s reactions. “I’m Doctor Ludwig, what’s your-”

Of course, it causes her to half-gasp half-scream of pain, mortals no longer used to injuries of this nature in everyday life. The half-Fae gathers herself together soon enough, answering her half-finished question.

“Miss Sookie Stackhouse,” she breathes. He can see her mind whirling, trying to put words to the question she both needs to know and doesn’t want to know. “Am I dying?”

Before William can open his mouth to pointlessly reassure her like he clearly wants to, Ludwig answers her question with the blunt honesty she’s infamous for. “Yes.”

That seems to spark something in the two century year old vampire, taking a step forward from where he positioned himself at the doctor’s back when she arrived.

“No, she cannot die! You will save her,” he demands, probably trying to intimate her to work faster at her job. Young vampires always think there’s nothing they cannot gain from threatening, seducing, or with money. It seems like William is one of such vampires that hasn’t learned not everything can be tricked out of someone else.

“Back off vampire,” comes Ludwig’s stern, unconcerned voice. She’s never feared their race as she probably should have, but then again without her there are very few who they can turn to in their time of need. It’s rightly earned, her confidence dealing with their species. “Let me do my job.”

“Forgive him,” Erik implores to the doctor, though their image don’t differ much at all if any. All of their manners contrast to William, from Pamela the youngest to Godric being indifferent of whether this creature lives or dies. “Bill is abnormally attached to this human.”

This earns him a side glance from both his Maker and childe, once again the gap in generations being in sync with one another. Erik doesn’t acknowledge the motion, ignoring it or not noticing it is the question. Both of them turn back to the dying human on the table, letting the hypocrisy of his words slide by for the moment.

“Well, we don’t have a lot of choices. She’s been poisoned,” the doctor announces the room, looking over Sookie with a critical eye before moving on to the furthest gash from her. “You ever heard of Komodo Dragons? Their mouths are teeming with bacteria. After one has bitten you it’ll track you for hours, days, just waiting for the toxins to slowly eat away at your nervous system till you’re good and helpless. Then it will devour you alive.”

For all the Ludwig despises vampires, she ironically has a lot of common with their sense of humor.

“I was,” her patient wheezes in disbelief, “scratch by a dragon?”

“No…” Ludwig doesn’t even allow the possibility things aren’t too bad for the human before she plows ahead with the rest of her bad news. “But this poison is similar, but way more effective. Don’t think I’ve seen it before but it’s hard to tell without further testing and we don’t have that kind of time.”

It’s unlikely for the doctor to have seen this particular toxin but Godric doesn’t doubt she’d be able to identify it given enough time to study the substance. Maende are rare, moving from land mass to land mass with no rhyme or reason other than where chaos calls them. True creators of immortality unable to die unless they will themselves to. In all of his years Godric has only met one and it was before he began his own immortal life.

“Give us some privacy,” Ludwig tells the room. “I need to remove her clothing.” It doesn’t take long for the vampires to clear out of the room, moving at a slow pace as to not startle her or the half-delirious human. William hangs back for one more minutes than the others, probably to give comfort to his mortal love.

Pamela goes her own way, to check inventory or securing their rooms as it’s likely they’ll be staying at the bar today. They can’t afford to move the human but they also can’t afford to leave her in the establishment alone.

Erik goes to his office with Godric not too far behind. His childe takes his seat behind the desk, his frame adorning well to the ornate throne. The Maker doesn’t waste any time figuring out where to sit, simply taking a place on the desk itself and crossing his legs as he looks back at his childe.

“‘ _Bill is abnormally attached to this human.’_ Is that so? Are you positive you aren’t the one getting attached?” Godric can’t say what he would have done in the past, whether he would have punished Erik for these feelings of his or if he would have told him to get rid of the strings forming between them. It doesn’t matter what he _would have_ done at the moment, only what he _is_ doing.

Above all Godric wants Erik to realize something about whatever lingers in the air between the two of them. He can’t tell what his progeny is precisely feeling with the massive gap spanning them, but Godric knows Erik better than anyone. The likelihood of his childe forming an actual bond at the beginning with the telepath is low, but that doesn’t mean the potential to isn’t there. At the moment it’s very likely that all he feels is attraction to her blood and body, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. If the Viking would let it.

Erik can live and find out where this attachment to each other goes, because as much as Godric would like to say he respects William and his line enough to not encourage his childe, he doesn’t. William, when compared to the Viking King, doesn’t stand a chance at keeping the blonde’s heart if Erik truly plays for it.

It’s rare for them to find and keep interest within a mortal, why let the opportunity go to waste?

His childe looks startled at his comment, seemingly confused over where his line of thought has come from. He opens his mouth, looking to deny any accusations thrown his way. Godric raises a single eyebrow, the action alone telling the Viking that any lie, whether to himself or Godric won’t be tolerated. The Gaul stares his progeny down, just daring him to refute his claim.

The blonde settles back in his chair with a thoughtful look on his face, contemplating his words. It doesn’t take long for him to slip into downtime, trying to figure out what he’s feeling and where he wants this thing with the human to go to.

Godric faintly feels a warmth sweep through him. Even after all these years and distance, the lack of communication and the hurt he’s inevitably caused his childe with his silence, Erik continues to trust him in such a vulnerable state.

He’s tempted to slip in after him, but he would never risk his progeny so. Whatever he’s been meaning to deliberate about will have to wait awhile longer until he knows Erik is in a secure area. Until then he can force the fog away a little bit more.

The Ancient takes to watching the door, the only known entrance to anyone outside of Erik’s trust circle, which includes only those of his bloodline. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, or maybe he does. Seconds or minutes could have been passed before the door is thrown open, the dark haired vampire that laid claim to the human that’s in immense pain stalking through the room. He takes no interest in Erik, focus solely on Godric.

“You knew,” he accursed. “You knew she was poisoned. You know what attacked her.” William, the foolish and emotional vampire he is, takes a step forward into Godric’s space. “Tell me,” he demands.

Godric, even at his lowest with his Maker, has never taken to being ordered around. It is the reason he was punished so severely in his human life. At times he had to take the demands he would always cause an incident afterwards. Over the millenniums he’s walked this earth there are very few people he’s ever had to answer to, and even _they_ are cautious with how they word their requests.

When uppity baby vampires with no manners try their hand at being an alpha, it’s always brought great amusement to Godric to put them in their place.

He’s done it so often that it’s no longer a conscious decision to antagonize them. It’s a habit, one that even drowning as he is won’t change.

A smirk graces his lips, a daring look enter his eyes. He knows what sort of picture he presents, cocky and arrogant with all the answers but little to no care to give anyone the time of day. With his apparent young age at the forefront of William’s senses and his actual age tucked beneath the surface it’s easy for someone who doesn’t know him previously to fall for his act. He can even see the moment William snaps, fangs dropping at the disrespect being shown to him.

William takes it a step further, crossing the little space that separates them and fisting a hand in his shirt. He goes to snarl, face consorting in his rage and doesn’t even get the chance to speak before he’s flung back.

Godric usually lets them get in the first part of their threat, let them live up to their grand image of themselves before smacking them back down to the reality of their situations. Godric enjoyed the look of realizing their in over their heads, that they’ve picked a fight with someone they can’t win. Godric didn’t push William back.

Erik did.

Erik, who had apparently snapped out of downtime when he sensed someone too close, has William up against the wall. William’s fangs have snapped back, retreating when faced with a known danger that he can’t match up to. His childe, in return, has let his out at the threat towards him.

“You even think about going near Godric again and I’ll have your head on a pike, _Bheel_ ,” he rages. “If you had laid a hand on him you’d already be a pile of blood.”

William, the stupid vampire he is when put in front of a vampire ten times his age, dares open his mouth to continue his vitriol. “What is he to you? Your fu-”

Before he can finish that sentence, which would have surely ended with his head ripped off, a scream cuts through the air. It’s the human’s, agonize and sounds as if she’s being tortured. William can’t go to her, as much as his body strains to do so. Erik still has him by the throat, daring him to try to escape before he’s released.

“Better go to her, _Bheel._ Go to your pet human and just _try_ to comfort her,” he lets go the southern youngling, letting him stagger away from the room to go to his precious lover.

There’s silence in the room for a moment longer. It lingers, heavy with tension that Godric can’t name. Erik turns from the door he locks, scanning his Maker for any injuries. It’s not enough, the electricity in the air tells him. He must feel it as well, for Erik strides over to him, settling himself between his legs and caging him with his arms on either side. Erik dips down and noses the underside of his jaw, scenting him and looking for any damage he might have missed.

There isn’t any, the younger vampire not having even touched his skin before he was removed by Erik. Even if he had, Godric is old and heals faster than other vampires. There wouldn’t have been a mark even if William had laid a hand on him.

He stays there for some time, pressing closer as if to enfold Godric into his very rib cage. They’ve been in this position many times before, though something feels different this time. He would usually run his fingers through Erik’s hair at this point, but his arms feel heavy and useless and he can’t bring himself to twitch a digit let alone raise an arm.

“Why didn’t you remove him?” his childe asks quietly, nerves carefully hidden at breaking the moment in time.

Why didn’t he remove him? There is of course the obvious answer of he isn’t a threat to Godric. Another is he isn’t worth his effort. He could tell his progeny that it is a game he made up long ago to see how far baby vampires would go and how much they would crumble when toppled. That one is even true. But it isn’t the reason he didn’t do anything when William became aggressive.

A part of him, a major part, had goaded the southern vampire because Godric wanted him to lash out at him, mark his skin and let his ancient blood run in open air. He wanted the flash of hot-white pain and the proof that he’s not immortal. That someone, something, can end his existence someday.

“It was a test,” Godric says instead. It’s true, though not for who Erik will have in mind. “To see how far he’ll go for that human.” He did want to see what William would do for Sookie, but the half-truth burns on his tongue. The true assessment was to gage how far _he’s_ gone, how much his apathy has consumed him.

Godric has become very aware of himself in the past century, what he will and won’t do to achieve his goals. If William had even given a glance to Erik he knows he would have ripped him apart right then and there for the perceived threat to his childe. The younger vampire had, thankfully for him, focused on the physically younger vampire and hadn’t given Erik any mind.

It’s only with this latest stunt of his that Godric knows the true extent of how far he’s fallen from the person he used to be.

The Ancient knows that even if he wants to, he doesn’t have enough in him to fight for his own survival.

Erik searches his gaze, probably hearing something that sounds _off_ but unable to place what it means. Godric has never lied to his progeny and Erik doesn’t know what it’s like for the Gaul to lie to him. He knows the inflection and tone of his voice when he lies to others, but hearing it directed at him is different. The rhythm and articulation don’t sound off, the easy slip of his accent gives nothing away. Erik has only known truth from his lips and the falsehood doesn’t set off any normal alarms.

It’s instinct that guides him this time.

For all that his childe is shrewd and untrusting of others, Erik has confided only in his Maker. When everything goes wrong Erik has always looked to him for guidance and council, believing in his wisdom and mien to see him through difficult decisions.

This trust in Godric alone allows Erik to drop the subject, to stop scrutinizing his words and simply bury his face into his neck. Even if something is off Erik will not question him so early on, so blatantly, in this regard. He will let the questions simmer and brew, waiting for it to be explained to him one day.

In this his dear childe truly is a fool.

* * *

Eric breaths in Godric’s scent, the calming smell of earth he acquired over the millennium easily picked up and the fragrance of pine right underneath of it. These are perfume’s his Maker has gathered in his immortal life, but if Erik focuses enough he can smell the natural aroma that lays deep beneath his creator’s skin from his mortal days.

It reminds him of the ocean and rivers, the lowest of valleys and highest of mountains. It’s crisp and sharp and like the first snow fall, barely noticeable unless there’s more of it. There’s a tinge of something _other_ , that’s neither vampire or human that always evades his grasp. It’s like nothing in his long vocabulary, the closet he’s come to describe it is _darkness_ , the shadows lining the forest floor and hanging in caves.

He knows this scent like the back of his hand, the scent of _Death_.

The Viking breaths in one last time, holding his breath to keep the smell of his Maker inside of him, and looks at the supposedly teenager’s face.

Godric is disappointed.

Eric knows he would be. Knows his actions have upset his Sire just as they had in Germany. It’s a pain he was expecting but it doesn’t make it any easier to handle. Godric is rarely dissatisfied with his work and there are times he imagines he’s never let him down. It’s false because when he does, he can never forget the closed off expression his Maker wears. How closed off he is and how he’s drawn just a little bit tighter, not initiating contact between the two.

Whenever he feels Godric pull away he always renews his vow to never fail again. This time is no different.

“I’m sorry,” Eric confesses his sin. “I’ve disobeyed you.”

“How so?” comes the reply, as if his Maker doesn’t remember the lessons he’s pounded into his childe’s head. Godric isn’t going to let him get away with sliding by his mistake and forces him to acknowledge his failings.

“‘ _The blood is sacred.’_ You’ve taught me this from the very beginning and I’ve contravened this ideology twice. I’ve spat on your teachings with little to no regard and I’ll take whatever punishment you deem fit to make up for my dishonorable actions.”

Godric isn’t looking at him, staring a little off from his ear in thought. His Sire has rarely looked others in the eye. At first it was with humans whose instincts can tell there is something _more_ to the young man than what meets the eye. It transferred to other vampires soon enough when they became unnerved with the timeless bearing and unsettled by the feral beast that still lingers in Godric’s soul.

Erik has never been in anything but awe, craving to see those wild orbs and meet them with his own.

“Am I a failure of a Maker?” Godric bits his lip, almost succeeding to draw his attention away from his horrifying words. “Have I been remiss as _your_ Marker? I know you didn’t have a conventional turning, with my own being lackluster of a model. Is there something I could have done differently to make this life easier for you?”

What is Godric saying? He’s the best Maker a childe could ask for. _Eric_ is the one who doesn’t deserve such a devoted Sire. He’s always getting into trouble, always picking fights and not listening to Godric. His creator is patient with him and when that tolerance is snapped it’s rightly warranted. He’s comforted Eric in his transition and helped him take his first steps into immortality. How could Godric possibly think he’s left wanting as a Maker?

Is it Eric’s fault? Has his rebellious nature when it comes to authority shown Godric he failed in finding his place among their kind? Did becoming attracted to the human, Sylvie, many years ago which landed him and Pam in this punishment demonstrate his lack of adaptation? Does Godric, perceptive as he is, see whatever is between him and Sookie headed down that same path?

Does he think his childe’s failings are his own?

“No Master,” he uses the term which his Maker despises to get his attention on him and not wandering to places he cannot follow. It earns him a glower and a slight showing of teeth, but Godric is _looking_ at him now and it’s all that matters. “I couldn’t have asked for a better Sire, couldn’t even dream of a better beginning to this life. My failings in following your lessons are mine alone. I’ve been a mediocre progeny in not following your directives. I’ve been a disappointment to you, my actions have reflected poorly on your teachings and you and for that I can never be regretful enough.”

Godric doesn’t say anything for a few moments, eyes racking over his face in search of something Eric hopes he finds. Sincerity, most likely, or perhaps remorse, both of which he has plenty of in the moment. He’s always strived to make Godric proud and it’s devastating when he falls short of the mark.

The older Ancient cups his face, forcing him to look at his elder as if his every focus isn’t already on him. He articulates each letter carefully, picking out his words before he speaks, trying to impart to him something that Godric feels to be obvious but isn’t to Eric.

“Childe, I could _never_ be disappointed in you,” he implores. “You could go live as a savage or become a part of the Authority and I will always be as proud as I was the day I watched you fight on the battlefield. There is _nothing_ you could do to lessen that joy.

“You are my proudest achievement.”

Whenever his Maker speaks of his own devotion it always leaves Eric gasping for air he doesn’t need. Godric isn’t vocal, doesn’t shout his thoughts from the top of his lungs. He’s quiet, a breeze on the wind and the silence in the woods. When Godric speaks people listen. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard in a crowded room, all occupants falling silent to hear his words.

His Maker keeps this side of him guarded, built behind walls so high it’s impossible to even guess at what lays behind them. The world will never see them crumble and it’ll take centuries before this part of Godric is given to anyone else. Here he is open, vulnerable, honest in a way he isn’t anywhere else and only with Eric.

It is _this_ part that frightens Eric. He has never feared his sharp anger or his cold rage, never trembled in the wake of his bloodlust nor shied away from the cruel games he’s played. This side of Godric isn’t tangible, no outlet to seek out and only words and actions lets Eric knows it’s there at all.

This sacred, hidden part of his Maker is the side that will, with no hesitation, die for his childe.

Eric is everything to his Sire, something he has known from the moment he crawled out of his grave and looked into sea-green eyes. It took many years for him to truly _know_ it, but Godric has never made it a secret to his progeny that Eric is his world.

With this knowledge he knows he can abuse this devotion, this trust Godric has for unknown reasons placed in him, can tear him to pieces and leave ruins in his wake and know Godric will never hate him for it.

If Eric was anyone else, he would have used this weakness to his advantage. Would have gained his way higher into the hierarchy of their government, used his connections and wisdom to carve out a piece of the world for himself. He could have had his Maker crumble into dust and rid himself of his presence, inheriting everything from his bloodline.

But Eric isn’t like anyone else. He could never lay a hand against his Maker. His Maker, who sung to him when the nightmares of his death became all too real, who force fed him for all those weeks in the beginning, who guided him and taught him everything he knew. His Maker who gave him the eternal gift of _life_.

To harm Godric would be to harm himself.

Maybe in the beginning he could have. When he was filled with rage and anger and disgust. When he refused the gift his Sire had given him and tried desperately to deny what he became. There were so many times in their beginning that if he had known how deeply Godric cared about him he would have turned against his creator. It sickens him now, the thought that any version of himself could wish to bring Godric pain, so much that he tries to bury those early months into oblivion.

He is thankful, _so thankful_ , only after coming to care for Godric he learned of his own Maker’s affections towards himself. To know there was a chance to never know this warmth, this pride, in being his isn’t something he can just throw off. A world without Godric isn’t a world worth living, damn his human family’s murderer to the hell on earth it would be.

It is because of this devotion on both sides that Eric is aware of the space that separates them. Emotionally Godric is distant, for all the tenderness in his gaze there is a cordiality to it, a polite detachment to the lining of his eyes. Mentally Eric can’t reach him, the bond blocked when right in front of each other. It leaves him grasping at wisps of his thoughts, trying desperately to cross the distance between the two of them.

For all that his words ring true there is something hollow to them.

Even in the physical realm they’re not close enough. Eric has Godric penned with his arms, leaning into his space and taking center stage of his attention. Every focus should be on him, they should have fallen back into their pattern whenever they’re this close and renewing of fidelity. They are not clutching at flesh and tearing clothes, nor have their lips captured one another in the familiar motion that’s never recurring enough for Eric.

Godric’s legs, for all they are on the side of his hips, are not wrapped around him to bring Eric closer. They hang in the air, relaxed and limp with no intention to bring them tighter than they already are. His hands are much the same, lack and lifeless in his lap, making no motion to twine themselves into Eric’s hair and bring their lips into a meeting that he so desperately wants at the moment.

His Maker is right here but Godric has never felt further.

“Why do you pull away then?” Eric pleads, needing to make this vastness between them disappear. It leaves both of them cold, with no reward in sight for this senseless pain. If it isn’t something Eric has done, if he hasn’t disappointed Godric, why does the space between them grow instead of lessen? “If I have not done anything to make you leave, why continue to let us be apart?”

He doesn’t say anything, remaining his stare at Eric with blank eyes before glancing down at his hands. He looks at them as if seeing them for the first time, the sight a little unsettling for the Viking who knows Godric rarely jokes about contact. Whatever occupies his Maker’s attention after all these years isn’t something light if it stands between them, silent and waiting to strike without giving Eric a clue as to what it is.

The Ancient looks up at his childe, eyes searching for something different than what they had been before previously. He stares right back, trying to find any answers in the curve of Godric’s cheekbones or the plump of his lips. For all of the years he’s memorized his Marker’s tells, there’s nothing there. It’s a blank canvas with no resolutions in sight.

“I guess…” he trails off, eyes darting away from his and Eric silently curses when that piercing gaze is no longer on him. Godric searches for the right words in the air while Eric examines his face, looking for any shift to give away his thoughts should words fail him. “It has been a long time since I’ve initiated contact with anyone. I suppose I am unable to recall how.”

The younger vampire feels as if he has failed. Out of everyone in the world, who had been and who could be, Eric knows that he is the only one Godric trusts enough to never hesitate in sharing affection. For his Maker to have gone so long without essential contact both humans and vampires alike need to function is a failing on his part. It doesn’t matter that Godric was the one to leave, that he never reached out. He knows his Sire sees this dependency as a weakness though Eric does not. The Viking will gladly provide this desideratum for the Gaul.

It is getting Godric to accept it is the hard part.

Eric takes a tiny wrist, slowly lifting it to give his Maker the chance of stopping him. No matter how fast or slow he goes Godric can stop him at any moment, but it’s the thought that counts right now. If he has become adverse to touch in any way in their time apart, Eric will have to respect that development. The Gaul shows no sign of minding, and if Godric is willing to try to mend the gap between them Eric has no reason to halt. He molds the Ancient’s hand to his face, angling the little hand slightly to kiss the edge of his palm without breaking eye contact. He feels the slightest twitch, Godric’s fingers lightly tracing over his skin to rememorize lines he already knows by heart.

The progeny leans forwards, forcing Godric to steady himself or risk both he and his maker falling over. The elder could sustain their combined weight, but it’s always slightly awkward with the difference in body mass. The older of the two grasps his childe’s waist and shoulder, the one previously holding Godric’s own hand to his face falling to rest on his Maker’s small of his back. Eric uses the momentum to lean over his Sire, splaying his petite form over his desk and pressing their hips together.

Neither of them are aroused, not for this purpose, and Eric feels something in his gut settle when Godric slithers his delicate arms around his back, burying his face into Eric’s chest. His legs come up to envelop his torso, trying to get closer than what they are. The berserker drapes his remaining arm around his Maker, ruffling dark locks with his nose to breathe in the scent that is purely his Sire.

If Godric has neglected this desire of his, Eric will just have to care for him.

One hand slips beneath his shirt, trailing along the expanse of his back. He’s careful to avoid the tattoo he knows to span the length of Godric’s neck to his ass and the small brand on the back of his right shoulder. He kneads the groups of muscle, finding tension he hadn’t noticed and it adds to his list of growing failures. Eric should have noticed how stressed Godric is, should have done something to relieve him of his burden. He works on the many knots laying under his skin, determined to have his small Maker lax and spent in his arms.

Slowly but surely it works, each bundle of nerves coming undone under his hand. It has Godric sagging in his embrace, shivers racing down his spine and he can feel his mouth open on his chest as if to protest when he rests his whole arm across his back to cradle his Maker’s body to his.

His other hand slips between them, up the front of Godric’s shirt, mapping lines and muscle that have been engraved on his Maker since his own turning. His fingers skirt the edges of his ribs, sending goosebumps across his skin and causing him to curl tighter into Eric. The purr catches his attention immediately, low and almost inaudible, but still steady and strong. It radiates from his Maker’s chest, the childe drawing out nonsense on his body as he slowly reveals more skin the further up he goes.

Small palms come up to skim his sides, pressing against his abdomen and running up to his pectorals, where they rest for a brief moment. Eric presses down, encouraging the action from his Sire before they glide to tentatively encircle his neck with thin arms, one hand briefly cupping the place where they bound themselves together a millennia ago.

Eric continues on with his administrations, determined now that he’s gotten a reaction out of his Maker. He circles raised flesh, Godric releasing a low hiss at the action along with a tightening of limbs. The Viking skates his fangs over an ivory neck, stroking his tongue over the vein he took his first slip of blood from. He’s careful when he bites down, not extracting the blessed liquid and only leaving small indents on flesh which soon will smooth out with no depression to remain.

The action draws a soft cry from his Maker’s throat, barely audible if not for their proximity. Eric wishes to tear out those noises from his Sire, wretch them into the air and hoard them like the precious tokens they are. It satisfies him in a way nothing else can, knowing that he’s the only one who has heard these sounds from Godric. He’s the only one who’s hears these sweet melodies.

Slim fingers tug at shortened hair, scraping against scalp and trying to find a foothold against sensations that overwhelm him. It won’t work, Eric knows from experience. For all that Godric doesn’t get like this often, he’s well versed when it comes to his needs. He can count on one hand and still have fingers left over from the times where Godric has let himself recede too much in isolation. It’s always best to overwhelm him, engulf him in awareness of every inch of himself and let it devastate whatever remains of the solitude in his Maker’s mind.

The Gaul gets lost in his head, lost in thought too often and forgets to act in the physical realm if there’s nothing to prompt him. It’s why they’ve made a good team throughout the years, the Viking always rushing in before thinking things through.

Eric rolls his hips against smaller ones, not to excite arousal but to ground, rocking them together as short nails bite into his shoulders. They fold into each other, tucking faces into necks and ride through the wave of pleasure together. Even though it’s not sexual, not truly, is still has the same effect on the blonde.

Whenever he is intimate with his creator it brings a sense of _completeness,_ a wholeness and makes him more aware of the space in his chest which his Maker occupies. Time slows down and the stars still to prolong this instant. It dulls everything else, makes the bird song of the Yggdrasil Tree muted and the festivities in Æsir’s Great Hall, Gladsheim, dim in contrast. The Gods voices lessen and still, falling silent to hear the soft gasps of breath dropping from Godric’s lips. There is truly no better place to be, not even at Odin’s side in Valhalla.

He pulls back, unable to control his desire to take in his Maker with all of his glory. It is easy to see how many take Godric as a deity or the son of one. Godric is beautiful, stuck in between femininity and masculinity as he is. He cannot be mistaken as a woman, soft some of his features may be, but there’s a tantalizing, friable elegancy to him, hiding the pillars of Mithril and the unpredictability of the seas that Eric knows to be beneath his Maker’s immortal image.

With ebony silken locks that almost touch his shoulders and lily-white skin, looking thin enough to break but knows that age has made it harder than steel, he’s a picture for worshipping endlessly. Divinity runs in his ancient veins, calling all those who _dare_ to lay a hand on him to their true end, and obsidian lines his bones to be impenetrable. There is no hesitation when the rushing of waves sound at his arrival or the wind that guides his steps. The immortal teenager is everything sacrilegious and reverent, temptation and taboo, desirable and gratifying, causing veneration in all who lay eyes on the youth.

No one alive has seen him in this state, no one else has this familiarity that Eric has earned. A slight upheaval of his chest, eyes slightly glazed, unable to focus on anything but the bliss his progeny is giving him. If he could he would be flushed, a delicious pink lining his cheeks and making their way down his neck, under his shirt. It gives the appearance of innocent adolescence, nowhere in sight is the stoic Ancient he is in public. This Godric is for his eyes only.

Godric is beautiful, gorgeous. This way he is ravishing.

The only thing more memorable in Eric’s mind is him with bruised lips and bitten neck, crying out at the height of pleasure he’s unable to contain.

 _That_ is an image engraved into his soul.

Reluctantly, he disentangles from his Maker. A whine of distress quietly escapes his throat, quickly bitten back before it can come free. Blearily bright eyes open halfway, a look of curiosity crossing his features as he wonders what his childe has planned.

Moving slowly, always slowly, to give him time to protest, Eric easily lifts his Maker to twist him on his stomach. He’s bent perfectly over his desk, a fantasy he’s had more often than he cares to admit in the past few years. If this had been any other scenario he’d have his Maker crying out in ecstasy already.

For all this is about pleasure, sex and lust have no place here.

Eric blankets Godric with his body, leaving no space between them exposed to the air. His creator grips the edge of the desk above his head, tensing in preparation of what he does not know. That will not do, Eric decides. He won’t allow Godric to become taut again. The berserker covers small hands with his giant palms, entwining their fingers together and pressing down gently but firmly, molding their bodies to one another in a mockery of a dance they’ve done more times than there are stars in the sky.

Nibbling at his earlobe, tugging tenderly on the cartilage, a tremor starts along his slender shoulders. Eric follows the trail, mouthing along sensitive skin of his graceful throat. He sucks, kisses hard enough to draw blood to the surface and leave red patches behind. He scrapes teeth, not fangs, along his nape, nipping firmly enough to leave a mark but not to spill crimson.

As much as Eric wants to drown in his Sire’s blood, to be reborn and rejuvenated, this isn’t about Eric and his constant desire to be connected so deeply to his Maker. It’s about Godric, connecting him to the world around him, grounding him to the here and now without having him wander to places unknown.

The Viking pulls up his shirt, leaning down to trace the contours of his body. Godric is built slim, a runner and a swimmer and dancer all in one, lean lines and compact muscle whereas Eric fills space, meant to take down others hard and have them stay down. They had different enemies, different battles to fight in their human lives but here they are the same with only age separating their strength.

He whispers languages long dead into milky skin, his lips adoring the perfection laid before him. Patterns are made, random design reverently painted onto his skin. Tracing the snake curling in on itself with his tongue, he wonders at the meaning behind this tattoo. Godric has never diverged his past, human or vampiric, and Eric when faced with the marks upon his Maker’s form ponders on the history he left in his wake.

Godric relaxes, tension draining out of his limbs and leaving him slack. Shivers and the pitch of moans racking through him transferring into Eric. It delights him to know that Godric is still effected by him, his body giving way to his deeds with little protest. It eases something in his chest, healing the distance between them if only slightly.

Using his nails he rakes them down his arm, trailing up and down with the barest of touch. The little hair on his body raises in response, standing on end at the feeling of the ghost caress. Godric’s breathing, which neither of them need but have practice to help blend in the past, eases from the heavier pants it had become. The tender push and pull of flesh lull him into a state of somnolent, assisting his way into Njorun’s embrace.

Godric fights the pull of her domain, just as Eric knew he would. He has always resisted the sun’s power over them, and just because dawn is hours away won’t stop his Maker from doing it now. The Gaul thrives under the moonlight and hates it when its beauty isn’t viewed in full appreciation. This time Eric won’t allow him to escape into wakefulness, holding him in the slumber of the oncoming day. He is stressed and tired, from what Eric has no idea, but he strives to undo the damage he has done to himself.

His breathing stops soon enough, a practice he doesn’t do often as it cuts off his sense of smell, the only thing that could possibly wake him if someone intruded on his sleep. Eric is here though, a guard to the immortal boy until it is time for both of them to go to ground. He will watch over his Maker in his vulnerable moment and sooth whatever creeps into his mind as dawn approaches.

Eric scoops the snoozing Ancient into his arms, careful not to disturb the brunet. Tucking the petite form into his chest, he relishes in the feeling of having Godric at peace in his arms. Here, like this, Godric looks his eternal age. With his large frame engulfing him, he looks even smaller and more brittle, a wave of protectiveness taking over his senses before he’s able to push them back. His Maker will not appreciate it, but sometimes Eric can’t help the way he responds to the Gaul. Everything in him screams to keep the smaller male safe and it doesn’t help that there are moments when his Maker doesn’t look his actual age.

Wrapping him in his coat, he maneuvers him onto the couch. It’s comfortable enough, and the sight of Godric in his jacket sooths the uneasiness in his chest. He could be asleep or he could be in the space of nothingness when in downtime. It’s always hard to tell with the Ancient. He’s not thinking, and that’s enough for now. Eric leans forward to press a soft kiss between his brows before getting up to check on the others still in his establishment. Even in this state the slightest noise above the usual octave could wake Godric from his trance and that isn’t something he can allow.

The room has the three inhabitants he expects, his childe setting out a spare coffin for Bill in the employee’s quarters. Eric does not trust Bill with him and his, and refuses to allow him anywhere near their resting place. The thought of them being in the same building is starting to set him off, his Maker exposed in his office, let alone them sharing a space.

The Viking moves to pull up a chair behind Dr. Ludwig as she dabs at the slashes on Sookie’s back. They’ve stopped bleeding profusely, slowing down to a trickle and starting to clot over. Bill is running a hand softly down her cheek, soothing her as she drifts onto awareness.

“You can give her blood now,” the doctor tells Bill. “Her body will accept it.”

He goes to bit into his wrist, but Eric can’t help to jab at the southern man again. He rushes over, faster than the other vampire can track, catching a hold of his wrist.

“Mine is much stronger,” he taunts, knowing what he’ll say. “Allow me.” The smirk curving at the corners of his mouth is involuntary, but he doesn’t try to stop it. He wouldn’t even if Bill had given his permission, though he would have been tempted. Disappointing Godric for a third time in a century over the same dilemma isn’t something he wants to experience. That doesn’t mean he can’t wave his shortcomings in Bill’s face though.

“Never,” he spits, attempting to rip his hand off of his arm. He’s not able to do it, of course. Eric chuckles, letting go of the appendage and stepping back, allowing him to bite his own arm to get his human back to health. He coats her into awareness, imploring her to drink as he holds up his bleeding wrist to her mouth.

Dr. Ludwig packs up, stepping towards him to remind him of his end of the deal. “I’ll expect my payment by the end of the week.” The short old hags walks right past him without another word, already on her way out the door.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Ludwig.”

“Fuck off!”

Eric doesn’t know if he’s amused or annoyed every time he calls upon her services.

“Clearly the pleasure is one-sided,” Bill pipes up, unable to help himself.

He watches her leave, making sure she’s out the door as he answers. “She’s no fan of the fang. She tolerates us, but that’s as far as it goes.” He turns around, meeting Bill’s eyes and glancing at the fading Sookie. “There’s a coffin set up in the employee’s room for you. Miss Stackhouse will be safe here. Doors and windows are locked tight and security systems in place. We could have her placed in a back room but waking injured and in an unfamiliar place might worsen her condition.” Eric gestures for Bill to do what he thinks it best for her, beginning to feel the pull of the sun slightly though he knows the southern vampire feels it ten times greater. Just another point in his favor in his opinion.

Eric sauntering away, intent to curl up around his Maker for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You almost didn't get this chapter. My dog was ran over the day of my last post and I busted the last of this out yesterday. I also wanted my friend to read it before posting, but she's busy.
> 
> (Dog lived)


End file.
